


Almost home

by jamlockk



Series: Cabinlock [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drinking, M/M, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6293815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drinks alone in a bar where he meets a pilot who, for once, elects to speak from the heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost home

The first drink slipped down easily. Sherlock drained the glass and closed his eyes as the whisky burned its way down his throat, warming his stomach. He could drown out the noise of the bar around him as long as he kept himself focused on the sensation of the alcohol in his veins. Anything to distract himself from thoughts of where he was headed next, how far he’d come so far, and above all what he’d left behind. 

He lifted the now-empty glass and flicked the end of it towards the bartender in a universal gesture for the next drink. The barman silently filled the glass again and stepped away to carry on the discussion he’d been having with a couple of surly-looking patrons at the other end of the bar. Glancing around, Sherlock took in his surroundings. The entire bar was somewhat questionable, but it was at least out of the way and the anonymity offered was most useful as he prepared for the next part of his task.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was tired, sore and not especially eager to move on. Part of him was itching to complete this, to finish it and get home. Another part of him was quietly terrified of what lay ahead and what awaited him when he finally returned. The last place on the list was perhaps the biggest challenge and more dangerous than anywhere else he’d been. The all too brief respite offered in a dive bar bottle of cheap, shitty whisky was rapidly turning sour in his gullet.

Two years. Almost two years. So long. It had been so long since he’d chased the night air down an alleyway, the footsteps behind him speaking of sandy hair, deep blue eyes and a strong, steady, welcome hand. The lingering smells of Chinese takeaway and beer and chemicals and gun oil. The sound of an impossibly light and melodious giggle in an unexpected place, the tingle in his fingertips as soft, gentle notes created warm smiles and fond praise. So much hidden beneath, buried deeply into his core, a longing fierce, a love irrevocable. 

“I know that look.”

The smooth, rich voice broke into Sherlock’s thoughts and he opened his eyes. The man pulling up the stool next to him was tall, with a casual air of distinguish. Mid-fifties, dark hair and soft brown eyes. 

“Pilot. Captain. Divorced, one child. Pineapple juice, reformed alcoholic then. Dull,” Sherlock muttered mechanically. The man snorted. 

“Very clever,” he said. Sherlock frowned. “My turn? British, obviously,” he continued, ignoring Sherlock’s huff of indignation. “Here for work, not pleasure. Leaving for pastures new soon though. And alone.”

Sherlock glared at the stranger but felt a stirring of grudging respect. Maybe not so dull as first thought - he was right after all. Sherlock was alone. 

The man raised one eyebrow and smirked, clinking his glass against Sherlock’s as he took a sip of the sickly sweet fruit juice he’d ordered. Sherlock blinked, nodded and swallowed a dram of his whisky. 

“Very clever,”the stranger mused, “I chose my drinking companion well, though I wasn’t exactly spoilt for options in a hellhole like this.” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, and drained his glass.The barman grumpily brought the bottle over, left it beside Sherlock’s elbow and returned to the other end of the bar. Sherlock refilled the glass. One more. Just one more, he thought, then I’ll check in. And move on. And go home. 

“Why me?” He asked quietly as he raised the glass to his lips. The pilot chuckled darkly. 

“You remind me of someone,” he said simply. “And I’m indulging my inner emotional masochist tonight, apparently.”

Sherlock had no desire for this turn of the conversation. Bad enough that his own mind was drowning itself in melancholy thoughts of the one person he missed most dearly. They drank in silence for a few moments. Sherlock could feel the pilot’s eyes studying his face, his over-long hair, his scruffy overcoat, but when he met the pilot’s gaze the man just smiled sadly and looked away. Sherlock longed to be clean-shaven and in his own coat. It was a silly thing to miss. Sentiment, he scolded himself. 

Finally the pilot stood and placed his empty glass on the bar. He checked his watch and sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. 

“Charter plane, small company,” Sherlock said. The pilot nodded absently. 

“Flying home tonight,” he confirmed. He straightened the cuffs of his jacket and fished in his pocket before counting out a few notes onto the bar. Sherlock watched him as he turned to leave. He drained the glass of whisky again and refilled it. His head was starting to feel fuzzy around the edges, a gentle buzz in his skin, not entirely unpleasant but not entirely welcome either. 

One more. One more, then-

The glass stopped at his lips when the pilot’s heavy, warm hand came to settle on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“It’s always just one more, until it isn’t,” the pilot said softly.

The hand lifted and Sherlock was appalled to find he immediately missed its presence. It had been the first human contact in almost two years which didn’t come with dread, fear of hurt or self-loathing. There was no danger to his physical safety in that friendly, companionable touch. He flinched inwardly and downed the last of the whisky to wash away the memories threatening to absorb his thoughts. The pilot’s rich voice came gently close to his ear, breath tickling as the man leaned in. 

“Whoever it is, tell them. As soon as you can. Don’t be like me. Take the risk, take the chance.” 

Sherlock froze, caught between terror and the urge to blurt out everything. How… how could…? He frantically looked around, but the pilot was gone, the door to the bar still swinging as the cold air from the snow outside seeped in. Sherlock stared down at the whisky bottle, then carefully withdrew just enough money to settle the tab and quietly slipped away out of the bar.


End file.
